What’s in a name? A lot, that’s what’s in a name

I love birding in the southwestern states of the US, and it’s partly because of the linguistic fun I get out of it. My first Pacific Loon was, of course, a Black-throated Diver, my first Black-bellied Plover a Grey Plover, Horned and Eared Grebes are Slavonian and Black-necked respectively, an Oldsquaw in San Diego Bay was a Long-tailed Duck, and so on. Sometimes vernacular names are shared: I saw four species of orioles in SoCal, but they are in the family Icteridae, not Oriolidae. Similarly, their Thrushes and Blackbirds are not Turdidae (although the American Robin, confusingly, is), their Hawks are generally our Buzzards, and their Buzzards are generally our Vultures. Our Parus tits translate as Chickadees. And so it goes.
My question is this: does this linguistic gallimaufry really matter? After all, if I am not sure if their Snowy Plover is really a Kentish Plover, I can always check the scientific name. And there it is: Bingo! Charadrius alexandrinus. So, tell me, why should we ask the Americans to call it Kentish, any more than we should be asked to call it Snowy? Vive la Différence! Variety spices our lives.
You all know that there are several species of nearctic wrens – Bewick’s, House, Marsh, Canyon, etc – and, in winter, the Winter Wren, which is our Troglodytes troglodytes. I loved the frisson of recognition on finding my first: familiar in appearance, exotic in name.
And now, the desiccated scrotally-challenged buffoons of the BOU have decreed that our wren should be called Winter Wren. Tell me why. Listen, you bou-ffoons, the vernacular names of birds are just that: vernacular. Vernacular means popular, popular means chosen by the people. Not by committees, not by experts. We the people call them what we want. By all means advise us. Point out that the Hedge Sparrow is not a sparrow and might better be called a Dunnock, but don’t dictate to us. And leave the poetry in the names, for goodness’ sake. A Stock Dove flies wing-flickingly like a dove, not like a pigeon: that’s why we call it a dove (unless you are an old fen tiger, in which case you call it a Blue Rock).
As for the rash of epithets that have been attached to our birds’ names, they are like a bad attack of impetigo, disfiguring lists and bird reports. Have you noticed how much harder it now is to locate, for instance, Lapwing in a list now that it is prefaced with the egregious Northern? Damn the busybodies!
Fellow birders, let me ask you a question: when you see a wren, do you see a Winter Wren? When you see a Little Ringed Plover, do you see a Little Plover? No, neither do I. Long live OUR names, there’s no good reason to change them.

Envoi
My alma mater is known as "the home of lost causes", but that's no reason for me not to fight back even at this late stage.